


Shone Like Gold

by M_Monoceros



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Angela helps him figure some shit out, Basically PWP, Drunk Sex, Elliot is awkward and inexperienced, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9113029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Monoceros/pseuds/M_Monoceros
Summary: Elliot’s not sure who finally closes the space between them, but somehow their lips find each other in the dark. They kiss slowly, softly, sinking back into their old familiar rhythms with ease...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PajamaSecrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/gifts).



> Written as part of the Mr. Robot Fanfiction Secret Santa. :) Happy holidays my friend! You’re one of my oldest and favouritest mutuals, and I’m stoked that you somehow ended up in this teeny tiny fandom with me. ❤️
> 
> Enjoy!

( [_Oh I wish, for once, we could stay gold._](https://youtu.be/veHUZMoKObc) )

It’s just after four in the morning when they stumble through the door of Elliot’s shitty apartment, dishevelled and reeking of sweat and booze and stale cigarette smoke. 

Angela’s arm is draped over his shoulder and she’s still snickering at what Elliot said to the bartender in Brooklyn. There’s a pleasant buzzing in his head as he steers her to his bedroom, trying hard not to make too much noise—his roommates both work early tomorrow morning. At least _he_ doesn’t have to worry about waking up on time anymore.

“Get to sleep in,” he mutters to himself. Angela shushes him loudly and then giggles. 

Elliot’s room is a mess, and he hastily kicks a path through the clutter on the floor to his bed. Angela doesn’t seem to mind; she brushes past him and sits heavily on the twin mattress, gazing blearily at their new surroundings. 

“This is a shit hole,” she declares and flops sideways, fast asleep before her head even hits the pillow. 

He covers her with the blanket, turns off the lights and lies on the floor beside the bed. There’s no bedframe, just one lumpy twin mattress, so he’s not too far away from her down here. 

Elliot lies back and tries to sort through the events of the past twenty-four hours. It feels like it’s been days since his manager called him into his office. _It’s just not working out,_ he’d said, eyebrows furrowed sympathetically. And suddenly Elliot had been seized by the overwhelming fear that _he knew_ —that this man had been watching him. There was always a weird double click when he dialled out from the office and he was sure they were checking his browsing history. 

So he hadn’t asked _why,_ he had just left, and he was standing on the street corner about to throw his cellphone in the trash when it rang. And it was Angela, and _Tyler cheated on me,_ she had said. _I’m coming to the city and we’re getting shitfaced._

Elliot didn’t tell her about his job when he met her at the train station. Instead, he listened to her talk about her shitty ex and the girl he fucked over Christmas and how she only found out because his friend tagged him in a picture on Facebook. She talked about grad school and how she was drowning in papers and deadlines but she really felt like she had found a place for herself. Now she was home for Spring break and she couldn’t wait to get back. 

The room is spinning but Elliot remembers how her eyes crinkled when she told him about her favourite seminar class; how she held his hands when they danced even though he’s shit at that kind of thing. She looks older than she did the last time he saw her, and she has a new kind of confidence that he’s never seen before. 

A few wisps of blonde hair are peeking over the edge of the mattress, and without thinking he reaches up to stroke them.

_Soft,_ he thinks happily, and closes his eyes. There’s a rustle of movement and then the strands are gone. He opens his eyes to find Angela peering down at him. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers. 

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you cold?” 

Elliot shrugs, then realizes she probably can’t see that particular response in the darkness. 

“No,” he lies. 

“There’s room up here.”

“I’m good.” 

_“Elliot,”_ she says sternly. “What if _I’m_ cold. did you ever think of that?”

He considers this argument for a moment before he rolls onto his knees and crawls into bed beside her. It _is_ much warmer here, and it reminds him of being a kid again—they were always so close that their parents never thought twice about letting them have sleepovers. Of course, they used to have a lot more room in a twin bed together… 

Elliot tries to stay a respectful distance from Angela, but she doesn’t seem to mind the closeness—she stretches her arms out and pulls him towards her, pressing their foreheads together. Her breath is cool on his face, and he feels himself start to drift. 

“Elliot.” 

“Mmm.” 

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice low and serious. He opens his eyes. Her face is in shadow, backlit by the orange glow of the street lamps outside. Each of her little frizzy hairs is glowing—they look like luminous copper wires, and he tries to smooth them down gently with his hand. 

“I’m fine,” he says unconvincingly.

“I’m sorry I left,” she whispers. “And that I’ve been gone for so long.” 

Elliot shrugs. His chest feels tight for some reason. This isn’t how he wants to spend his last few hours with her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and her face is even closer now; their noses are touching. 

Elliot’s not sure who finally closes the space between them, but somehow their lips find each other in the dark. They kiss slowly, softly, sinking back into their old familiar rhythms with ease. Angela’s hand snakes behind his head, teasing the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and he shivers.

Her body is pressed against his, and he runs his hand down her back, trailing his fingers along the delicate bones of her spine. He can’t remember the last time he touched anyone like this—it feels good but it’s almost too much; the smell and taste and warmth of her overwhelms him. Even after all these years she still feels like home. 

Their mouths move with more intensity now; the kisses are deeper and wetter and she slips a hand up his shirt. He inhales sharply at the touch and feels her smile against his lips. Their legs are tangled together, and his breath hitches when her thigh brushes his crotch. Encouraged, she presses against his erection more purposefully. 

“Okay?” she asks; he nods and kisses her again. Fuck—he’s so hard already, and before he can stop himself he’s grinding himself against Angela’s leg. His cock is aching with arousal, and the pressure only increases his frustration. Angela makes a pleased little sound in the back of her throat and pulls his hand to the hem of her jeans, leaning into his touch as his fingertips trail down her stomach. He unbuttons her fly and slides his hand into her underwear. 

“You’re really wet,” he slurs, and she laughs. All of his focus is on the velvety feeling of her cunt. He doesn’t have much experience in this area but he’s not sober enough to care—he drags his finger along the place he thinks her clit probably is and she gives a sharp gasp. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and starts to pull back. 

“It’s fine,” she sighs. “Look, just—lighter, ok?” 

“Like, uh… like this?” He tries again. Her eyes are closed and he can see her brows knitted together in concentration. 

“Hm,” she says, and he’s glad she can’t see how red his face must be.

“Sorry,” he says again. He takes his hand away and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to fight the pit of shame that’s opened wide in his stomach. 

Out of the darkness, Angela’s face materializes above him. Her hair spills down around them like a curtain, tickling his cheeks. 

“You’re such a dork,” she says after a minute. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she sighs in exasperation. He really isn’t expecting her to kiss him again, and when she does he feels like he might cry. 

“Just… let me do the work, alright?” she says when they break apart. He nods and before he can process what’s happening she’s already wriggling out of her jeans and pulling off her t-shirt. 

“Okay?” she asks as she climbs on top of his legs. 

“Yeah.” 

Her hands move to his belt. “Okay?” she asks as she undoes his fly. 

“Yeah. Shit—” he gasps when he feels her hand on his cock, working him free from his boxers and jeans.

“Okay?” 

He nods and exhales slowly.

“I’m going to stop asking that now,” she says, and before he can agree her mouth is on him and his mind is filled with stars. She trails her tongue along the underside of his cock, working the base with one hand until the whole length is slick with her saliva, then takes him deep into her throat. 

“Holy shit,” Elliot murmurs. The pleasure radiates out from his groin and down his legs like fire. With a jolt of embarrassment he realizes he’s already close. “Angela—”

“Not yet,” she whispers firmly between strokes; her gaze flickers up to meet his eyes and she smirks. 

She stops just when Elliot is sure he can’t take it anymore—he shivers as she pulls away and crawls up towards him, straddling him so that the damp flesh between her legs is flush against his swollen cock.

Elliot’s hands feel heavy at his sides so he places them on her waist, tracing the curve of her side up to her breasts. He cups them gently and teases her nipples with his thumbs—she gasps and rolls her hips, grinding herself along the length of him until he’s shaking with need. 

“Fuck—can I—?” 

She nods vigorously and reaches down, bringing his cock against her slit. She stays like that for a moment, working the head slowly in and out, teasing him. The sensation is torturously intense, but it’s not enough, and he squirms underneath her, desperate for relief. 

“Okay?” she asks breathlessly. 

“Yeah,” he grits out. “Fuck—I really want—can I p-please… can I please fuck you?” 

She doesn’t answer, just sinks down onto his cock, burying him deep inside of her. 

_“Holy shit,”_ he groans, but the words are half muffled by Angela’s lips on his own. He clutches her face and pulls her closer as she eases up and then down again. Her cunt is hot and wet around him, gripping his cock tightly as she rides him. 

“Touch me,” she demands, guiding his hand to her clit. He lets her direct his movements—she covers his hand with her own and presses down ever so slightly, pulling his fingers in slow circles over her skin until she knows he has the right rhythm. 

“Good?” Elliot asks, and she nods wordlessly. His heart is pounding and he’s terrified he’ll fuck this up somehow.

He watches her face intently—eyes closed, expression far away, teeth worrying her bottom lip. It’s been a long time since they’ve done this; they were in high school the last time, and she was his first. There haven’t been many others since then. 

She’s all but silent as they move together, and he varies the pressure of his fingertips until her breath catches and she moans softly. The desperation in her voice sends a shiver down his spine—he’s not going to last much longer like this. 

“Just a little more…” she breathes, as if she can read his mind; it takes everything Elliot has not to come right then and there. She’s riding him faster, hands braced on his chest, and he focuses on the sensation of her nails digging into her skin. The pain cuts through the barrage of sensations, keeping him from unravelling entirely. 

Suddenly she groans and inhales sharply and then she’s coming, grinding herself onto his cock and his hand as she lets fly a string of expletives he’s only half sure are actual words. 

“Ah—God, Elliot—fuck me—” she orders, and Elliot may not have much experience but _that_ he can do. He holds her by the hips and fucks up into her as she slams herself down to meet each thrust. 

“Fuck, Angela—” he manages to choke out.

_“Come,”_ she orders, and almost instantly a wave of relief breaks over him. She keeps riding him as empties himself inside of her, and he can’t hold back the noises that tear from his throat—he must be loud enough to wake the whole building, but he doesn’t give a shit anymore. 

As they both slow he pulls her close again and kisses her deeply. They only stay like that for a minute before Angela smiles and rolls away. 

She picks a dirty shirt from his floor and slips it over her head before disappearing to the bathroom. Elliot’s jeans are still tangled around his legs, so he kicks them off and lies back on the bed in a daze. 

The morning sun is just starting to overtake the orange glow of the streetlights, filtering through the crack in his blinds and illuminating the wall with a sliver of pale gold. He watches it grow, listening to the sound of the traffic outside. In the next room over, someone’s alarm goes off. 

Elliot’s almost asleep when the bed dips and Angela crawls in next to him. She shimmies down beside him and takes his hand in her own, weaving their fingers together. 

He drifts off to the sound of her breath, deep and even, like waves crashing on the seashore.

*

Elliot walks her to the train station the next day. They talk and joke like usual but the air between them feels heavy, somehow. Or maybe that’s just in his head—lately it’s been getting harder and harder to tell.

Neither of them really know what to say when they get to the platform; she opens her mouth but before she can speak Elliot pulls her into a stiff hug. When they break apart her cheeks are wet with tears, and he can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He’s felt more normal with her in the past few hours than he has in years—a weird little bubble of sanity. 

He’s frightened to death of what’s waiting for him on the other side. 

“See you soon,” she says with a tight smile. 

“See you soon.”

He waits as she boards the train and watches as it pulls out of the station, thinking of her smile, and her voice, and the feeling of her lips on his skin.


End file.
